The Potter of Firsk and Other Stories Read Free Page B

came over the long doleful face.
    “Now take this,” said Holderlin, giving over the sack of clay, “and follow me.”
    At last the creature understood what was required of him, and with no show of either zeal or reluctance, took the bag in its rickety arms and shuffled along behind Holderlin to the ship. When they arrived, Holderlin went within and brought out a length of shiny chain, and showed it to his helper.
    “One more trip, understand? One more trip. Let’s go.” The creature obediently followed him.
    Holderlin dug the clay, loaded the bag into the native’s arms.
    Above them came the sound of voices, footsteps, scuffling and grating on the rock. Holderlin crept for cover. The native stood stupidly, holding the sack of clay.
    Three figures came into sight, two of them panting through respirators—Blaine and a tall man whose pointed ears and high-arched eyebrows proclaimed Trankli blood. The third was a native with a red mop of hair.
    “What’s this?” cried the Trankli half-breed, spying Holderlin’s helper. “That sack is—”
    They were the last words he spoke. A needle-beam chattered and cut him down. Blaine whirled about, grabbing for his own weapon. A voice brought him up short.
    “Drop it, Blaine! You’re as good as dead!”
    Blaine slowly dropped his hands to his sides, glaring madly in the direction of the voice, his malformed lip twitching. Holderlin stepped from the shadow into the scarlet sunlight, and his face was as ruthless as death itself.
    “Looking for me?”
    He walked over and took Blaine’s needle-beam. He noted the native’s reddish mop of hair. This was the one that had passed him in the woods, who was evidently in league with his enemies.
    The needle-beam spoke once more, and the tall black body crumpled like broken jack-straws. Holderlin’s worker watched impassively.
    “Can’t have any tale-bearers,” said Holderlin, turning his ice-blue eyes on Blaine.
    “Why don’t you give it up, Holderlin?” snarled Blaine. “You can’t get away alive.”
    “Do you think you’ll outlive me?” mocked Holderlin. “What’s that you’ve got? A radio, hey? I’ll take that.” He did so. “The native was taking you to the
Perseus
, and you were going to flash back the position. Right?”
    “That’s right,” admitted Blaine sourly, wondering at what moment he was to be killed.
    Holderlin mused.
    “What ship are you in?”
    “The
Maetho
—Killer Donahue’s. You can’t get away, Holderlin. Not with Donahue after you.”
    “We’ll see,” said Holderlin shortly.
    So it was Killer Donahue’s
Maetho
! Holderlin had heard tales of Donahue—a slight man of forty years, with dark hair and a pair of black eyes which saw around corners and into men’s minds. He had a droll clown’s face, but past deeds of blood and loot did not echo the humor of his countenance.
    Holderlin thought a moment, staring at the flaccid Blaine. The surviving native stood disinterestedly holding the clay.
    “Well, you wanted to see the
Perseus
,” Holderlin said at last. “Start moving.” He gestured with the needle-beam.
    Blaine went slowly, sullenly.
    “Do you want to die now,” inquired Holderlin, “or are you going to do as I say?”
    “You got the gun,” growled Blaine. “I got no say at all.”
    “Good,” said Holderlin. “Then move faster. And tonight we’ll cook linings for the steering jets.” He motioned to the waiting native. With Blaine ahead, they plodded off toward the ship.
    “What’s over the mountain? Donahue’s hideout?” Holderlin asked.
    Blaine nodded dourly, then decided he had nothing to lose by truckling to Holderlin.
    “He gets thame-dust here, sells it on Fan.”
    Thame was an aphrodisiac powder.
    “The natives collect it, bring it in little pots. He gives them salt for it. They love salt.”
    Holderlin was silent, saving his energy for plowing the black dust.
    “Suppose you did get away,” Blaine presently put forward, “you never could sell those